Appendectomy
by darthsydious
Summary: Molly has emergency surgery and calls the first person she thinks of.


_COME GET ME. – MH_

Sherlock frowned at his phone.

_Sorry? – SH_

_It's Molly Hooper. –MH_

_I am aware of who you are. Why do I have to come get you? Was I supposed to meet you? – SH_

_No. Had emergency surgery. Said I can't leave hospital unless someone takes me home. Come get me. –MH_

_When? – SH_

_Right now, cripes, Sherlock. –MH_

_NVM. Coming now. St. Barts? –SH_

Molly never responded, but just as he was calling for a cab, his phone beeped again, this time with a text from Mycroft:

_My car was in the vicinity, will arrive in two minutes. Miss Hooper should not be left alone as she's been prescribed pain medication. – M_

Not even surprised, Sherlock grabbed his coat, hurrying downstairs.

At the hospital, he looked around, wrinkling his nose. The woman at the desk said Molly Hooper had been checked out, but she was nowhere in sight. Wandering to the secondary exit, he found Mike Stamford who looked quite unhappy, sitting beside Molly. Molly, on the other hand, was blissfully unaware that her poking her workmate in the face might have been annoying.

"Stamford…" Sherlock began uncertainly.

"She had an appendectomy early yesterday morning," Mike began, batting Molly's hand away. "The doctor said she could go home today, but only if someone was watching her. She's on medication for the pain at the moment, but she doesn't have a very high threshold for it, so you see why-" Molly began to slide down the wall, so Mike and Sherlock both righted her. "-uh, why she needs someone to look after her. I only just found out myself. I'd take her home, but I'm actually on the clock," he replied. He hefted Molly to her feet as carefully as he could. "She's all yours now, mate." Before Sherlock could protest, Mike was hurrying for the stairs. Molly lifted her head, lolling it one side as she regarded the Consulting Detective through half-lidded eyes.

"You smell like formaldehyde."

"I was working on an experiment."

"Oo that's delightful," she slurred and beamed sloppily at him. "Need to go home and feed Toby."

"Why did you text me?"

"Someone had to come get me," she said, her legs not quite wanting to operate. Sherlock looked around, leaning her against the wall; he hurried around the corner for a wheelchair. When he returned, Molly was sitting on the floor. "Mbum is cold, Sherlock," she complained. He raised an eyebrow.

He managed to get her into the car without too much trouble. After considering the driver's question of "Where to?" he decided it would be beneficial for all if he swung by Molly's picked up a few things and then took them all to Baker Street. He couldn't very well stay in Molly's little hovel of a flat, and Mrs. Hudson could keep an eye on Molly. Or John, for that matter.

"Need Toby," Molly slurred. With a heavy sigh, he looked at the pathologist. "Pleasepleasepleasepleasepleeeeeaase," she tugged on his sleeve, pulling his arm.

"Fine, fine," he grumbled, extricating himself from her grip.

Twenty minutes later, he'd managed to shove Toby into the carrier, the cat, for his part, yowled repeatedly once zipped in.

"Shut up!" Sherlock groused as he searched Molly's flat for a suitcase. He couldn't find the cat food so he grabbed a dozen cans of tuna fish and salmon. It would have to do. When it came to clothing, however, he had no idea where to start. Not that he was against rifling through anyone's drawers, but Molly might not appreciate him going through her personals. He dug through the drawer, opening a drawer of expensive lingerie, then shut it promptly, coughing. Finding her pyjamas, a few pairs of trousers and several shirts, he stuffed them all in a duffle, pausing to grab a jumper, remembering she was often cold. Satisfied that it was enough for the time being, he locked her flat, hurrying back down to the car.

**221b, Several Hours Later**

John sighed, fishing around in his pocket for his keys. Sherlock had not stopped texting him for the better half of his shift about Molly's condition and what he should do. Pushing the door to 221b open, he found Molly's cat, Toby, sitting on the table, an open can of salmon at the cat's feet.

"Uh…shoo," John waved his hand at the cat. Toby blinked, looked at the tin at his feet and then pushed it off the table. It landed with a 'splat', fish juice all over the floor. "Oi!" John made to push the cat off the table, but Toby ducked, scurrying out of the way. Placemats, the bowl for keys and the salt and pepper shakers all hit the wall. "Buggaring-mmm…" John bit back a string of curses, glaring at the chaos left in Toby's wake. He picked up the fallen objects, sighing angrily. "Sherlock!"

"Shh!" the consulting detective hissed at him from the living room.

"Sherlock," John said, ignoring his orders to be quiet. "What is going on, where's Molly?"

"Mm here," John rounded the corner to see Molly tucked onto the couch, wrapped in Sherlock's duvet. She smiled dazedly up at him. Sherlock was bunched up on the other end of the sofa, hands steepled under his chin, eyes narrowed at Molly.

"Shut up, John, Molly needs to sleep."

"Mm not sleepy, mm hungry," she said.

"The doctor said you needed your rest."

"If she's hungry, that's good too," John said. "We'll do take-away. What do you want Molly?" she pursed her lips, shutting her eyes as she thought. John and Sherlock watched, her thought process painfully slow for the latter.

"Mm thinking…food…" Sherlock tipped his head back, emitting a groan.

"Want to narrow that down?" John asked.

"Chinese," Sherlock dug through his pockets, fishing out some money. "Here, go get Chinese food."

"Okay, soup or-"

"I don't care,"

"Not _you_," John snapped. "Molly, you should probably have something light, so you want rice, maybe wontons?"

"Yeah…" she grasped the edge of his open jacket, tugging. "John, Johnnnnn Watson," he almost laughed.

"Yes, Molly Hooper?"

"Go get those wee little cookies with the paper inside them, annnnnnnndmmmmmm-" she paused, narrowing her eyes as she puckered her lips. Amused, John waited.

"You stay too long like that you're likely to get kissed," he cautioned, his manner teasing. Sherlock did a double take, narrowing his gaze at John. Molly burst into a fit of giggles.

"You're _silly_. Cookies. Rice and wontons. And dumplings!"

"Yep," he nodded. "I'll be back. Sherlock, don't kill her, yeah?" he was gone before Sherlock could come up with a retort. Sherlock stood up on the couch, making sure John shut the door so Toby wouldn't run out before he sat down again. Molly grumbled:  
"You jostle everything like that."

"Shut up and sleep. I'll wake you when he gets back." Despite his tone, Molly smiled, clearly not giving a fig about his suddenly short temper.

"Love you Sherlock." His gaze softened a moment, and he studied her. He didn't know how to respond, so he tucked the blanket more securely around her, patting her forehead before heading to the kitchen.

**Some time later…**

"I'm pretty sure she can operate a spoon, Sherlock." John occupied his chair, watching telly. Sherlock sat on the coffee table, spoon-feeding Molly, who he'd bundled up in his duvet and another blanket. To be fair, she forgot usually mid-mouthful that there was food on a plate for her.

"Her hands were cold," Sherlock replied.

"Yu-huh."

"Mhgnoopghegmloight!"

"What?"

"Sorry?" Both Sherlock and John leaned forward. Molly fumbled under the blankets, freeing her hand to pull the spoon from her mouth.

"Need the toilet."  
"Oh." John sat back, thoroughly amused as Sherlock scurried to unwrap Molly from her cocoon of blankets, clearing a path for her to the toilet before he went back to the couch to eat.

"What?"

"What do you mean '_what'_?" John asked, disbelieving. Sherlock frowned, digging into his own food. "You spend your days practically walking on Molly Hooper, calling her in at all hours, stealing body parts, lab equipment and time, not giving a bloody toss about her except for her pull in St. Barts and all of a sudden you're spoon feeding her wonton, wrapping her in your favorite duvet and sheet set, and brushing her cat- yes, I saw you." Sherlock blinked. John only gave him a look. "What. Are you. Up to?"

"She texted me," Sherlock replied with a nonchalant shrug.

"Nooooo…"

"Yes she did-" Sherlock insisted.

"No, I mean-" John scrubbed a hand over his face. "What's in it for you? Are you trying to bribe her while she's on pain meds or something?" Sherlock quirked a brow, as if suddenly realizing something.

"Yes. You have me. Spot on, John." The doctor gave him a quizzical look.

"Sherlock…"

"No, your deductions are correct. You may scold me on the morals of bribing a heavily medicated pathologist to grant me access to a morgue I already could very easily break into by myself at a later date, however Molly's just fallen off the toilet, so I'm going to go help her-"

"No you don't-" John got up, pushing Sherlock back down. "I'm a doctor, I've at least got a license to see her indisposed, you don't." He stepped over the blankets, ignoring Sherlock's withering glare as he headed down the hallway. "Molls, you okay?" he knocked on the door.

"Fallen and I can't get up!" more snickering from within.

"I'm coming in," John tested the handle, then, having heard no protest from Molly, pushed the door open. "Cripes, woman, you really can't take any kind of medication, can you?" he muttered, kneeling to help her back up.

"Least I fell after I finished," she replied.

"I've definitely seen worse," he laughed.

"I see nothing humorous in Molly possibly concussing herself." Sherlock's voice could be heard from the living room.

Once righted, John sat her down on the closed toilet and checked her stitches.

"Anything broken?" she slurred.

"Nope, looks good, how's your head?"

"A-okay."

"Good, maybe have a wash, and then you can finish your dinner."

"Aye-sir," he received a sloppy smile and a salute that nearly toppled her over.

"Second thought, maybe I'll help you," he muttered.

Sherlock waited, listening. When John and Molly reappeared, he got to his feet.

"I'll set you here," John guided her toward the couch. "And I'll go change the sheets on my bed; you probably shouldn't sleep on a couch,"

"Pfft…couch is fine…" she batted a hand.

"John's right," Sherlock was already on his feet. "You need your rest in order to regain your full strength. However you oughtn't be climbing stairs in your condition. You may take my bed. Shall I carry you?" he'd said all this in only a few moments, crossing the room and holding out his arms in offering. Even in her addled state, Molly understood this was especially odd. Sherlock's pleasant expression dropped, confusion instead overtaking his features. "What?"

"Not gonna jump in your arms," Molly answered. "John says no jumping." Sherlock smirked, bending to carefully lift her again and bring her down to his room. John followed with the blankets which Sherlock snatched.

"You got her?"

"Yes, thank you," he kicked the door shut, muffling John cussing at him.

He tucked her in, minding she had an extra pillow to hug. He smoothed her hair aside.

"Why did you text me?" he asked quietly, not expecting an answer.

"Who else would I have texted?" she murmured sleepily.

"John?"

"I haven't memorized his number…" she shrugged.

"Are you warm enough?" he asked finally, still unsure as to how to respond to her.

"S'fine, Sherlock, very cozy…" The bell on Toby's collar was jingling as the large cat came trotting down the hall to inspect his mistresses' new sleeping arrangements. Sherlock opened the door for the cat. Placing the cat on her hip, he swiveled back to the doorway.

"There, goodnight. Come John, don't lurk in doorways, it's rude."

"Goodnight Molls," he shut the light off. "And call if you need anything."

It was past midnight when John stretched and yawned, shutting his laptop. That was one blog entry finished at any rate. He set his mug in the sink and shut the lights off as he went. He paused at Sherlock's room, deciding to check on Molly just once more before turning in. Stepping into the doorway, he stopped, blinked and then blinked again. He walked out, turned around and walked back into the room.

Nope. He wasn't hallucinating.

Molly Hooper was flat on her back, Toby curled up above her head, paws kneading her mussed hair, purring contentedly. Sherlock, however, was curled up around the pathologist, all arms and legs. If Molly was a tree, Sherlock would have been bloody _climbing_ her for pity's sake. Soft snoring from both of them made John tip-toe ever so silently back out, but not before snapping a quick picture.

Sherlock heard the door shut, and cracked an eye open. Seeing that John had left them alone again, he tugged the blankets up, pulling another pillow up so he wouldn't be crushing Molly's shoulder all night.

"Teach you to flirt with my pathologist," he muttered, burying himself under the blankets. After a moment, he rested his arm over Molly's upper waist, careful of her stitches.


End file.
